


Come lie with me

by allforyoumylove



Category: WTFock | Skam (Belgium)
Genre: Banter, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Falling In Love, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Robbe is the softest most gentle boy in the universe, Roommates, Sander is a sad boy, Sander is so in love, Sharing a Bed, Sleepy Cuddles, also Robbe plays the piano, lots of hugging, not for long though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-16 22:07:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29089530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allforyoumylove/pseuds/allforyoumylove
Summary: “When Robbe lifts the blanket and gently tugs on the leg of Sander’s sweatpants, silently inviting him in, Sander doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t hesitate, he just drowsily slips into Robbe’s embrace.”(or the one where they both have a terrible relationship with sleep but find out that it gets a little better when nestled up against each other)
Relationships: Sander Driesen/Robbe IJzermans
Comments: 50
Kudos: 159





	Come lie with me

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, hey, hello! I hope you’re all well 💕 I’m back (hopefully) from an involuntary hiatus that included dissertation writing, dissertation writing, and more dissertation writing (and a bit of winter depression thrown into the mix because I’m a Scandi girl who doesn’t get much daylight).  
> I’m feeling very rusty in the creative writing field + I feel like I barely know Robbe and Sander anymore since wtfock’s social media game is the fucking WORST, I could actually cry. This is very self-indulgent, and I can’t tell at all if it’s any good, but it will hopefully mend just a tiny bit of the sobbe-shaped hole in your hearts. Also, it seems that all these boys do in my fics is lie in bed lol, but let’s be real, that’s probably where they’d prefer to be at all times 😉)

**“How beautiful to find a heart that loves you, without asking you for anything, but to be okay.”**

**– Khalil Gibran**

“Please watch a movie with me.”

Sander places his hands on Robbe’s shoulders from behind, trying and failing to get his attention, because Robbe registers nothing. Perched on the piano bench, his gaze is fixed on his fingers dancing over the piano keys, stuck on a particularly difficult part.

“Robbe,” Sander tries again, more determined.

Robbe hums absentmindedly, starting over, fully intent on perfecting the melody.

“You are the most beautiful boy in the world, Robbe.”

“Mm,” Robbe hums again, and _wow, he’s really far away_ , Sander thinks.

Sighing, he leans forward, chin on top of Robbe’s head, and presses random keys, disrupting the mellow atmosphere with an array of awfully out of tune notes, physically stopping Robbe from playing.

“Could you fucking not?” Robbe chides and grips his wrists, suddenly snapped out of his spell. “I’ve told you a million times, I don’t want your charcoal-stained hands all over my piano.”

“No?” Sander smirks, the tips of his fingers teasingly grazing Robbe’s neck when he pulls back. “Do you want them all over you instead?”

Sander is flirtatious by nature, and he flirts with Robbe on a daily basis. Of course, Robbe puts on an annoyed front, but he doesn’t miss how his eyes soften just the tiniest bit every time. Different kinds of mischief get him different kinds of reactions: when he scans Robbe’s face in the grocery store and jokingly acts all surprised at how ‘expensive’ he is, he receives a fist to the arm and a flustered smile in return; when he winks at Robbe, it earns him a headshake and a bright laugh, because, okay, maybe he can’t wink to save his life; when he brings out the big guns and calls him ‘Robin’, he is awarded with an eyeroll and the prettiest rosy cheekbones he has ever seen.

Robbe peeks up at him, the back of his head against Sander’s stomach. “Sander,” he warns.

“Robin,” Sander says, sugar sweet. And there they are, the rosy cheekbones.

This has been an almost weekly thing since they moved into the apartment in late August. When Senne had introduced them to each other on a seaside trip a couple of years back, an instant friendship had formed between the two. Sander hadn’t known a single soul there, but when he locked eyes with Robbe, glimpses of moonlight and spray paint flashed through his mind, and it strangely felt as though they had met before in some other place or time or universe even. Since then, they had practically been attached at the hip.

Even then, Sander had been entertaining the idea of finding his own place, and at twenty, he had become terribly restless in the space where he had spent the whole of his life. Robbe was starting his first year of university that autumn and wanted to move closer to campus, wanted to stand on his own feet; he knew he was going to miss his mama terribly, but she had been so sweet and supportive of his decision, assuring him that she would be absolutely fine, that her sisters and friends would always be there to help out. So when Sander’s aunt was moving out of her apartment, they immediately jumped at the offer. The rent was great, the location too, and Sander would have plenty of space in his new room to unfold his creativity.

When he took Robbe to see the apartment, Robbe basically only had eyes for the shiny, black grand piano taking up almost a third of the living room.

“Do you play?” Sander’s aunt had asked him, noticing his immediate infatuation.

A bit flustered, Robbe nodded. “Yeah, some. Just amateur stu–”

“He’s really, really good,” Sander cut him off, “and really, really modest,” to which Robbe had sent him a subtle glare across the room.

His aunt looked between the piano and Robbe. “Do you want it?”

“W-what?” Robbe blinked confusedly.

“You can have the piano if you want. I think it’s practically impossible to get down all those flights of stairs anyway.” She let out a bright laugh. “And I can’t even play.”

“No, that’s way too much, I can’t, I-“ Robbe stuttered.

“Yes, you can,” she said, dismissively waving a hand as if giving away pianos for free was a daily occurrence for her. “It’s yours.”

Robbe had stars in his eyes, and Sander looked down at the floor, unable to suppress a fond smile.

Since then, he has listened to Robbe’s piano playing every day, either lying on the couch behind him, or as nice background music in his room while doing assignments or sketching away, and even though he really enjoys it, he also strives to annoy Robbe as often as he can when he is practising.

“A new year but the same you,” Robbe mutters under his breath then.

Sander breathes out a quiet laugh through his nose. “Right back at ya. If you’re just gonna play the same thing over and over, could you at least play some Bowie?”

Robbe snorts. “You do know that the reason why our neighbours like _me_ more than _you_ is because I actually give them a break from Bowie every once in a while, right?”

“ _A break from_ –“ Sander can’t even finish the sentence, the utter disrespect hurting his very soul. “I don’t always listen to Bowie, anyway.”

“No, you’re right, you don’t.” Robbe raises his hands in feigned surrender. “But when you do, so does everyone else in this building.”

Sander huffs. “They should be grateful.”

“You know.” Robbe’s tone is light-hearted and teasing as he shifts his position on the piano bench, a leg on each side, getting a better view of Sander, and Sander knows what’s coming, is already internally cringing. “As the self-proclaimed ‘Bowie stan number one’ that you are, it’s really a disgrace that you can’t even get the lyrics to “Under Pressure” right.”

“Oh my fucking God, that happened _once_ ,” Sander glowers, reliving the time when he was on the verge of an existential crisis in the supermarket, and Robbe just wouldn’t let him live it down.

He childishly tugs on Robbe’s wrists, and Robbe gives him a slightly annoyed look. “What do you need from me, Sander?”

“I need you to give your clever brain a break and come and watch something with me. And I’m going insane listening to that same part again and again and again.” He hauls the younger boy to his feet and drags him to the couch, handing him the remote. “Here. You choose.”

When he flops down on top of Robbe in a full body hug, arms looping around his middle, preventing him from getting back up, a little bewildered sound escapes Robbe’s mouth. “Someone’s in a cuddly mood?”

“Yes,” Sander mumbles and tilts his head, his chin resting on Robbe’s sternum. “Do you mind?”

Robbe’s coffee dark eyes meet his, lingering, before he shakes his head, a small smile forming on his lips. He turns on the TV and flicks through various channels and streaming services, not finding anything of interest.

With his patience wearing thin, Sander is about to tell him to just pick something, when Robbe chirps, “Can we watch _Friends_? There’s a marathon on. I haven’t watched it in forever.”

Sander dramatically groans into his hoodie.

“Oh, come on,” Robbe rolls his eyes. “I know it’s not one of your pretentious documentaries.” Sander pokes him in the ribs for that. “But you told me you wanted me to give my brain a break, and this is the best show for that.”

So, Sander gives in, makes himself comfortable on Robbe’s chest, and intertwines their legs. Every once in a while, when Robbe giggles, a surge of warmth crashes through him, and maybe, just maybe, he lets out a quiet snicker or two himself. But he will never admit that to anyone.

At the end of the first episode, there are fingertips drawing small circles on Sander’s back, absentmindedly it seems, before it progresses to a palm slowly smoothing up and down his spine. They have always been tactile, so Sander doesn’t know why a strange tingling erupts in his stomach as Robbe’s hand glides up his nape and into his hair. He only just manages to stifle a deep, appreciative sigh when blunt nails scrape his scalp.

And he knows the exact moment Robbe realises what he is doing; with a sharp motion he awkwardly places his palm flat against Sander’s back, and from his lack of movement it’s like he has stopped breathing altogether.

Exhaling a short chuckle and slipping an arm out from under Robbe, he blindly reaches for his hand and places it in his hair again. “Felt nice,” he mumbles.

Robbe’s fingers are hesitant at first, but soon they find their rhythm, and Sander feels him relax under him.

“Ever thought of bleaching it again?” Robbe asks after a while, twirling a brown lock around his pinky.

Sander makes a vague, noncommittal sound, his shoulders lifting in a shrug. “I know you had a thing for my white hair…” he says, smug, earning a long-suffering sigh from Robbe. “But it was the worst thing to take care of, and it got so damaged. I can’t be bothered again.”

Robbe hums in response, caresses Sander’s neck for a short moment. They fall quiet then, one minute taking the next, and Sander is struggling to keep his eyes open. He feels his heartbeat slow to almost a halt, and without him being entirely aware of it, his eyelids flutter shut. When Monica and Chandler sway in candlelight, newly engaged, the sounds in the room disappear, and he sinks into a sleep void of dreams, his mind just completely still for the first time in months and months.

And it feels like only a second has gone by when a soft voice is saying his name, gently pulling him back to the surface.

“What’s wrong?” Sander murmurs, not fully present, but notices that the TV has been turned off.

“Uhm, it’s just…” Robbe says with a smile in his voice. “It’s pretty late, and I have an early class tomorrow, so I should probably go get ready for bed.”

“Oh.” Bewildered, his brain still half asleep, he rolls off of Robbe, sits on the edge of the couch, and rubs his face. “Sorry, I, uh… sorry.”

Robbe gently squeezes his shoulder and gets up. “It’s alright. I’ll, uh, I’ll head to bed.”

“Yeah,” Sander nods in his direction, his gaze wavering. “Goodnight.”

When Robbe has disappeared down the hallway, he leans back and lets his head fall against the backrest, exhaling a sigh and trying to make sense of the messy feeling that is stirring in his stomach. It’s still there when he brushes his teeth and when he lies in his bed, wide-eyed and staring at the ceiling.

Near three a.m. when he finally drifts off, his dreams are filled with piano melodies, oversized hoodies, and a warm chest against his own, dreams that are gone when the weak morning light creeps into his room.

*****

The night does nothing but tease Sander. Sleep settles heavily in his body and bones but refuses to seep into his mind. He has been lying in complete darkness for hours, open-eyed and restless, had been determined to finally get a full night’s sleep, but every time he closes his eyelids, they automatically open again only moments later. While everyone seems to have their healthy eight hours of sleep in a firm grasp, they, as usual, slip out of his. Tossing and turning, he is in desperate search for just a few hours of unbroken rest. But he can’t quieten his mind, can’t get his pillow comfortable no matter how many times he fluffs it, and the mattress won’t swallow him up in the way he wants it to. When the clock crawls past midnight, he lets out a frustrated sigh.

The moment he is about to turn on his bedside lamp and reach for his sketchbook, he hears feet shuffling down the hallway, the sound coming to a stop on the creaky floorboard right outside his door. But nothing else happens.

Puzzled, Sander calls out a gentle, “Robbe?”

When Robbe quietly pokes his head through the door, oversized t-shirt exposing one of his sharp collarbones, hair even more rumpled than usual, something pinches in Sander’s chest.

“Sorry, I–“ Robbe begins, struggling to explain why he is standing in Sander’s doorway at midnight. “I just– It’s just that I can’t–”

The words won’t come, and Sander’s eyes soften. “You can’t sleep?”

Breathing out a sigh, Robbe nods, shyly.

With that, Sander scoots over and makes room for him, lifting the duvet in a silent invitation for him to crawl in, and Robbe’s shoulders visibly sink in relief. _Cute_ , Sander finds himself thinking.

Closing the door behind him, Robbe crosses over to the bed and slips in. With the distance he puts between them, the duvet is barely wide enough for them both. Sander listens in the darkness as Robbe tries to make himself comfortable, emphasis on _tries_ , because he can’t stop fidgeting; his shirt seems to irritate him, then his legs itch, then he accidentally hogs the duvet, leaving Sander bare. “Sorry,” he mutters to which Sander breathes out an amused snicker.

When Robbe rests his head on the pillow after adjusting it for what feels like the thousandths time, Sander decides to take things into his own hands. “Turn around, Robbe.”

Robbe stiffens, looking in his direction. “What?”

“Just turn around,” Sander repeats, a bit softer.

Hesitantly, Robbe shifts onto his side. As he pulls at his shirt that has coiled around his stomach, Sander sneaks an arm around his middle.

“What are you doing?” Robbe whispers, but there is no hint of reluctance. Silently, Sander presses his chest against his back, his shoulders meeting his, and it surprises him how soft Robbe is where they touch.

“I’m holding you,” he says matter-of-factly, trying to keep his voice steady and gentle, his breaths blowing over Robbe’s nape. “So you can sleep.”

Robbe scoffs. “You make me sound like a baby.”

“Well, you’re acting like one,” Sander shoots back without malice. When Robbe is about to retort, he murmurs, “Try to sleep, Robbe.”

There is silence for a moment before Robbe whispers an, “Okay.” Another beat. Then – and Sander can tell that Robbe almost doesn’t dare say it – “My shirt is still a bit irritating, though.”

Sighing, Sander loosens his grip around him and lets him fiddle around one last time. “You could just take it off, you know.”

Robbe has barely settled on his side again before Sander realigns their front and back, pulling him close. “But I always get so cold at night. I’ll just freeze to death if I take it off.”

“Body heat, Robbe,” Sander sleepily mumbles, pulling the covers up around them, his hand coming to rest flat against Robbe’s stomach, chin on the top of his spine, his breathing hitting the shell of his ear as he speaks. “Body heat.”

Tugging the duvet all the way up to his chin, Robbe quips, “You wish.”

And Sander really does, but he’s not going to give Robbe the satisfaction of that knowledge. “No more talking and no more moving,” he says, his lips very lightly brushing Robbe’s skin, making a light, light shiver run through him.

Unthinkingly, Robbe stretches his leg, his foot hitting Sander’s in the process, and Sander throws a leg on top, wraps it around his shin, and in seconds his body is completely moulded to Robbe’s.

“You’re too much,” he quietly chuckles into Robbe’s nape. “Too present for 12.30 on a weekday night.”

Robbe presses his cheek into Sander’s pillow and timidly whispers, “Do you want me to leave?”

His voice sets off a tender ache in Sander’s chest, and he is slightly taken aback by how much he doesn’t want him to leave. He lets his thumb lightly caress Robbe’s stomach over his shirt. With every breath he takes, the smell of vanilla mixed with light notes of tangerine from Robbe’s cheap bodywash and shampoo settles in his lungs, relaxing his body. “No,” he whispers back, gentle but firm. “Sleep.”

And then, just as Sander thinks that Robbe has gone to sleep, Robbbe very, very softly murmurs his name. “Sander?”

_Jesus Christ, this boy._

“Yes, Robbe?” Sander sighs.

A hand squeezes his own, just for a second. “Thank you.”

In silent response, Sander lowers his head just enough to press his lips against the back of Robbe’s neck, just a feathery touch, gone just as quickly.

The distant hum of the city gradually subsides, giving way for the stillness of the inky night sky. Slowly, Sander feels their bodies grow heavy, Robbe’s back rising and falling with every deep inhale, his own automatically following his rhythm, and then he doesn’t remember more, his mind succumbing to sleep. Behind his eyelids, where his thoughts usually make themselves known in a never-ending montage of images, there is now pitch black, and his sleep is unbroken for the first time in weeks.

-

When Sander opens his eyes the next morning, it is still dark out, and he wants nothing more than to snuggle up against Robbe’s back and get a few more hours of sleep. But when he rolls over, he is met with an empty bed and sheets carrying a light scent of tangerines. A flash of disappointment of not having Robbe there, of not getting to see his eyes flutter open when he wakes up, flies through his stomach.

He glides his palm over the space beside him. It’s still slightly warm. And then he remembers that it’s Thursday and that Robbe has an early class. Rubbing his puffy eyes, he checks the time. 7.05. Getting up this early should actually be illegal, he thinks. How Robbe does it so easily is beyond him. Thank god his own lecturers actually took mercy on their students this semester.

With sleep-heavy limbs he pulls on a hoodie and some sweatpants and shambles down the hallway to the kitchen. There Robbe is, fully dressed and well rested it seems, pouring himself a cup of coffee, worksheets and notes taking up half of the kitchen table, his backpack on the floor.

“Hey,” Sander mumbles, reaching for a mug in the cupboard and taking the coffee pot that Robbe offers to him.

“Morning,” Robbe says, a soft little private smile on his face.

Plumping down in the chair that Robbe had preoccupied before he came, Sander takes a sip of his coffee and glances at him over the rim of the mug. “Did you sleep well?”

Leaning back against the counter, Robbe finds Sander’s gaze. “I did, yeah.” Then he asks, a bit apprehensive, “Did you?”

Like a phantom touch, Sander feels Robbe’s back against his chest and his soft, curly hair tickling his nose. “Mhm, yeah, I did.”

“Good,” Robbe nods. “That’s good. Thank you for letting me sleep in your bed, Sander. I haven’t really been sleeping well lately, and… I don’t know, I think I just needed someone there.” A shy, almost embarrassed chuckle leaves his mouth, and he pulls adorably at the hem of his sweatshirt. “I know I was really fidgety and annoying, so don’t worry, I, uh… I won’t put you through that again.”

And then the flash of disappointment is back in Sander’s stomach, because he actually can’t stand it if this was a one-time thing, and it stuns him for a moment. When Robbe has collected his things from the table and is about to leave the kitchen, Sander scrambles for something to say. “Uhm, Robbe?”

Turning around in the doorway, his backpack hanging over one shoulder, down across his stomach, notes sticking out at the top, Robbe raises his eyebrows in a silent question.

“It’s just…” Sander begins, nervous suddenly. “If you’re having trouble sleeping, I don’t mind you sleeping with me. _I mean_ –“ he scrunches up his face, feels his cheekbones take on a rosy shade. “I don’t mind you sleeping in my bed, _beside_ me. Just if you, you know, if you sleep better with someone else there. I mean, only if you feel like it of course. I totally understa–”

“Okay,” Robbe cuts off his rambling, eyes soft and bright. “Thank you.”

Sander stares at him for a second, slightly taken aback, but manages to recover himself. He shoots him a nod, cool and collected, but when Robbe is out the door, he smiles dumbly into his coffee, cheeks still warm, a tingling in his fingertips.

*****

Sander knows one a.m. like the back of his hand; he knows that it’s the time when the city goes completely quiet, the last few cars shutting off their engines; that their downstairs neighbour comes home from her late shifts about five minutes later; that, when it’s a clear night, the moon sends a silvery beam directly through the middle of his room as if it’s trying to cut it in half.

And now he’s getting to know Robbe at one a.m. too.

Though some nights, he thinks Robbe won’t come, that he has fallen asleep by himself, which sometimes – by some miracle and to Sander’s great disappointment – he has; or worse, that he has thought better of it, that he has changed his mind about this whole thing. But more often than not, his door softly creaks open, and there Robbe is, slipping into his bed. At times, Sander is still up sketching at his desk, riding a wave of late-night inspiration. At others, he is already in bed, tossing and turning. Waiting.

So when Robbe enters his room, tousled and tired, Sander can’t help the surge of relief coursing through him. He then nestles up behind Robbe, as has become their little routine, and drifts off.

But he can’t ignore the well-known feeling that something is off, that something is brewing. There’s a slight heaviness in his limbs and eyelids as he lies on the couch one evening, mindlessly scrolling through his phone. Robbe sits at the piano, links his fingers together and bends them outwards, cracking the joints.

“Ugh, I fucking hate it when you do that,” Sander grumbles, his regular comment to Robbe’s warm-up routine.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Am I bothering your precious ears?” Robbe shoots back, wriggling his fingers in an attempt to loosen them up, the corners of his mouth twitching into a small smile when he hears the eyeroll in the sullen _fuck off_ that Sander mutters under his breath.

Pushing up the sleeves of his shirt and running a hand through his thick hair to get it out of his eyes, Robbe takes a deep breath. Then, gently resting the pads of his fingers on the keys, he begins to play. Slow, dark tones fill the room, and then light and delicate notes interweave, like air bubbles floating to the surface of the sparkling ocean, or flower petals tumbling in the wind.

Sander’s body moves of its own accord, as if pulled by an invisible string, the melody almost like a siren seducing a sailor to shipwreck. Except it’s anything but a siren; this is a gentle boy who helps you build your ship, using up his own fuel in the process just to make sure that you have a safe journey out at sea.

Robbe shoots him a quick smile when he slips onto the piano bench beside him. An intense feeling burgeons in Sander’s chest, or maybe it has been there all along, he isn’t quite sure at this moment, and he can’t stop it, doesn’t want to stop it. So he sits hip to hip with Robbe and feels it. He studies Robbe’s delicate, experienced hands gliding over the black and ivory keys, and it stuns him that this is the same boy who still sometimes comes home with bruised knees, dirty skateboard under his arm, and a dopey smile on his lips, high as a kite.

Sander watches the slope of Robbe’s Adam’s apple dip when he swallows, and he fights the urge to trace it with a fingertip. The end of a stray lock of hair grazes Robbe’s earring. Without thinking, Sander reaches up and tucks it behind his ear, caresses the elegant line of the nape of his neck, the neck that has a home on several pages in the sketchbook that he has secretly dedicated solely to Robbe. Slowly, he lets his hand slide up and sink into his hair, and when Robbe lets out a shaky sigh through parted lips, his lashes fluttering, he instinctively tugs, lightly.

And Sander loves him, has for a long time he realises then, and it nearly knocks the wind out of his lungs.

He wants to kiss him over cheap canned gin and tonic and expensive whiskey in crystal glasses, wants to go to the cinema just to smooch him silly in the back row, and to steal toothpaste kisses on lazy Sunday mornings. But mostly he wants to kiss him over the soft piano notes filling their tiny living room, right now.

Gently, very gently, Sander leans in and presses his lips to the curve of Robbe’s sweatshirt-clad shoulder. He watches how Robbe almost imperceptibly turns his head in his direction, still keeping his gaze on the piano keys as he continues playing.

Unhurriedly, he drags his lips over Robbe’s shoulder to the exposed winter pale skin of his neck, attentive of his every move, ready to pull away at any moment. But Robbe lets him, and maybe it’s wishful thinking, but Sander is certain that he hears a tiny moan as he reaches the junction of his shoulder and neck, the chain of his necklace slightly rough against his lower lip, and he is so soft and so searing that a shiver dances up the length of Sander’s spine.

Robbe’s hands are shaky now, not as precise as before, and when Sander looks up, Robbe is watching them in the reflection of the window opposite, nightfall turning glass into mirror. “Is this okay, Robbe?” Sander whispers when their gazes lock, because he has to ask, has to hear him say it.

Heavy-lidded, Robbe breathes a, “Yes,” already tilting his head to make it easier for Sander to roam. Letting his tongue swirl over Robbe’s pulse point, Sander feels his frantic heart, matching the pace of his own.

When Robbe’s eyes meet his own at last, it’s over for them. And then it happens, in slow-motion or lightning speed, Sander can’t tell which one.

Leaning in at the same time, Robbe’s lips are equal parts soft and bruising, and it’s dizzying and sparkling and blazing. Sander fumbles for his waist, struggling to find it under the layers of clothing, and his heart jumps at how freaking tiny this boy is. When his tongue glides over Robbe’s lips, Robbe lets him in, so warm and sweet, and Sander clings to him, wants him closer.

“At mine or at yours?” he attempts to joke, but it comes out more as a breathless and shaky stutter when Robbe takes his lower lip between his teeth.

Robbe exhales an, “At yours,” and before Sander’s brain manages to catch up with his body, he is on his bed, sheets against his back, Robbe’s fringe tickling his forehead, featherlight. Placing wet, open-mouthed kisses along his jaw, Sander tugs on his t-shirt, his sweatshirt somehow off already, hand gliding down his bare torso when Robbe pulls it over his head.

When he feels Robbe’s fingers crawl up his waist, he rolls them over, and then they are shirtless, chest to chest. Sander dips down, presses his lips against his collarbones, his sternum, feels Robbe’s panting lungs, certain that his own aren’t much calmer. Breathless and delirious, he pulls away and watches Robbe chase his mouth only to toss his head back against the pillow when Sander is too far out of reach.

Sander gazes at him lying right there beneath him, his chin tilted, heavy-lidded and divine, shiny, puffy lips just a breath away, waiting expectantly for Sander to kiss him again.

And Sander’s whole life is erased and gone then; he lives and has only lived in this moment, in his own sighs of Robbe’s name, in the taste of Robbe’s mouth, in the palms of Robbe’s hands. He wants to freeze the frame, needs time to gather himself, time to take in and process every single little detail of him. Dazed, he trails a fingertip down the line of his temple, feels the structure of his cheekbone, caresses his jaw, struggles to convince himself that he is real.

“Oh, Robbe. I’ll give you everything. I will.” He can’t tell if he says it aloud or if it is merely a thought running through his head, but Robbe seems to know either way. He cups the back of Sander’s neck, raises his head, and slots their lips together with such ferocity that Sander loses his breath.

When Robbe buries his fingers in Sander’s hair, tugging and stroking so affectionately, Sander’s hands roam and roam and roam. He drags his lips down his chest and stomach and back up again, wants to kiss every single goosebump rising on Robbe’s skin. It feels as though the moment is about to slip away from him, that its realness will dissolve any second, leaving him emptyhanded. So he holds on. He holds on and holds on and holds on, until his body is weak, and his lips are sore, and his heart is about to burst.

He knows he is reeling, and he thinks that somehow Robbe knows too, because he slows down, his kisses turning slow and languid until their lips are merely resting against each other. Cradling Sander’s face in his hands, Robbe brushes the tip of his nose against his while their breathing gradually synchronises, and Sander loves him so much, longs to tell him, but his words are stuck in the back of his throat. Instead, he curls around him, gathers him to his chest, and lets his heartbeat tell the rest.

*****

The next morning Sander can’t get out of bed.

He wants so badly to turn around, wants to kiss Robbe like he has never wanted anything in his life, but he just can’t; his body feels so, so heavy, and he is so, so tired.

When Robbe silently gathers his clothes and leaves the room, it feels like Sander’s world ends. He wishes desperately to cry, wishes to ball his eyes out at his own uselessness and how he is hurting Robbe, he even feels a prickle behind his eyes, but nothing happens. Pulling the covers over his body like he’s crawling into an invisible shell, he curls in on himself and bores the heels of his hands into his eyes, feeling _infinitely_ small.

Robbe has never really seen him like this, this low. They have discussed the basics, sure; what to expect, how to react, who to call. But there is only so much words can do. It’s a whole other thing when reality hits. Before they lived together, Sander would isolate himself behind closed doors and drawn curtains until his storm blew over, and Robbe sometimes didn’t see him for weeks. When Sander was back on his feet, he couldn’t help noticing how Robbe’s kind gaze lingered for a moment or two on his slightly hollow cheeks and the fading shadows under his eyes. But he never asked questions, bless him. He waited until Sander was ready to talk.

But he rarely ever was.

He knows that Robbe’s brain is on the verge of melting in his scull from overthinking. And he can’t bare it.

So he sleeps.

Sleeps and sleeps and sleeps. The days are stolen from him and there is nothing he can do.

He doesn’t know what day or time it is when the edge of his mattress dips and a soft hand combs through his hair, coaxing him to the surface. He squints against the light that flows through the gap in his curtains and sees brown hair messily put up in a hairclip and green eyes adorned with faint laugh lines, one of the eyelids visibly more shut than the other, just like his own.

“Mama?” he croaks.

She smiles, warm and homely. “Hi, sweetie.” She doesn’t have to ask him how he feels, knows it already.

Groggily he reaches for his phone on his nightstand and finds it with the charger plugged in, battery full, confused as to when he did that. 11.07 he reads and rubs his palms over his face. “I’ve been so careful, mama. I’ve been so careful with taking my meds, and then this happens anyway.”

“I know,” she says. “But sometimes you can do everything right, and things will still somehow find a loophole to slip through. And it fucking sucks.”

Sander can’t even smile at her choice of words. Instead, he sighs and rolls onto his back. “I’m just so tired.”

His mama strokes his cheek and for a split-second, her cold fingertips send him back to Robbe’s soft caresses. He glances at her, his stomach knotting. “Did Robbe call you?”

The knowing flicker that laces in the green of her eyes doesn’t go by unnoticed. “Yeah, he did. He called a few days ago actually, but I knew it would be better just to let you sleep.”

“How is he?” Sander asks weakly, fiddling with the sleeve of his shirt.

“He’s okay.” She regards him for a moment when he refuses to meet her eye. “What’s going on between you two?”

Sander burrows into his duvet, staring at a point on the wall and lets it roll off his tongue. “I’m in love with him, mama.”

There is a small, fond smile on her lips when he meets her gaze again. “And what about Robbe? Is he in love with you too, do you think?”

Months of gazes that have lasted just a second too long, hands in hair, soft, shy smiles, and Robbe’s scorching lips on his own just a few nights ago pass through his mind in quick glimpses. “I think so,” he whispers, jaw tensing and untensing at the thought of Robbe getting himself into the mess that he is. Sander knows that he is going to hurt him, and then he will leave, and he will lose his best friend, and then he will be all alone, and how can anyone ever love hi–

“Sander,” his mother says solemnly, knowing his fears, his thinly veiled self-deprecation, the monsters in his head. “He’s not going anywhere. I can tell that’s what you’re worried about. But the way he talks about you, honey? I’ve never met anyone with so much care and light in their eyes when talking about another person. He’s not just here for the pretty parts. That’s not who he is.” Looking around Sander’s room, she adds, “And look, he has made sure that you always had something to eat and drink, he has made sure to air out in here, he has even washed and folded your dirty clothes.”

And she is right. There’s a full glass of water and a plate of freshly made croques on his nightstand, the space doesn’t feel stuffy, and his chair in the corner isn’t overflowing with wrinkled sweatshirts and jeans, instead there is a pile of neatly folded clothes, ready to be put away. He knows that Robbe hasn’t put them in his closet, because he doesn’t want Sander to feel that he’s invading his privacy.

And Sander’s heart aches.

“I don’t want him to think that he has to put his life on pause whenever I get like this.”

She softly chuckles. “I mean, isn’t he quite domestic and practical by nature? I really think he has kept his usual routine; he has just extended it a little to make things easier for you.”

“He’s so good,” Sander whispers to himself with a hitch in his voice and a stinging in his nose.

When she leans down and presses her lips against his forehead, mumbling a, “You’re good, too,” he feels like a child again, in desperate need of his mum, and he wraps his arms around her, burrows into the crook of her neck and breathes in the warm, familiar scent of the perfume that she has worn all of his life.

“Oh, Sander…” she sighs, holding him the best she can at the awkward angle, hands firmly on the back of his shoulders. “I love you. So much. Everything will be okay, as always, remember?”

“I know,” he manages, watery and choked up. “I love you too.”

Just before she leaves, she lingers in the doorway, smiles, and reminds him one last time, “He’s not going anywhere.”

-

Sander gets out of bed a few hours later.

Outside, in the gentle gusts of the frosty January winds, large crystal snowflakes leisurely twirl, settling on rooftops and bare branches and gradually piling up at the bottom of window frames. Sky and ground merges into one big blank canvas, casting everything in a pale wintry white light, inviting to layering up in sweaters and coats and scarves.

Robbe is perched in the window seat in their living room when Sander enters, haloed and soft, pillows behind his back, a thick, red-chequered blanket wrapped around his legs and tucked under his armpits. A textbook rests in his lap alongside a notepad that Sander knows is filled with almost illegible notes. He hasn’t yet noticed him.

“Hey,” Sander tries, voice raspy, throat like sandpaper.

When Robbe looks up at him, he can actually see light being lit in his eyes. “Hi,” he says as Sander comes closer. “How are you feeling?”

Sander shrugs. “I don’t know. Tired.” He sits down on the edge of the seat. “Can I just sit here with you for a bit? I can’t stand being in my room any longer.”

“Of course,” Robbe nods.

The window seat is only just big enough for the two of them; Robbe bends his legs to make room, and, unthinkingly, Sander rests his socked feet on top of Robbe’s as if his body is seeking something steady, something human amid its chaos.

Before, when he had scanned his reflection in the bathroom mirror, drops of cold water dripping from his face and into the sink, he had only seen a stranger staring back at him; a stranger whose otherwise lively eyes had been dowsed with ice water, the thin skin around them painted in blues and purples, eyelids blinking in slow-motion, hair greasy and matt. And Robbe sees it too, of course he does, but he keeps quiet and settles into the comfortable silence.

Gently flicking the pen against the page, creating a few scattered dots on the corner, Robbe leans his head back against the wall and gazes out the window. On the snow-covered sidewalk, two kids are running around, siblings probably, their gloved hands balling up snow and throwing it at each other. Sander’s attention is on them now, too, their whines of laughter as they chase each other audible from where they are sitting. Behind them, their parents walk hand in hand, their children’s backpacks slung over their shoulders. When a snowball hits the father’s coat, he lets go of the mother’s hand and runs after the two small figures who flees with joyful squeals.

The window feels like ice against Sander’s temple. His tired, tired eyes travel to the boy at the opposite end of the window seat, and suddenly his fingers itch for pencil and paper, itch to render that one lock of hair curling around the shell of Robbe’s ear. But his sketchbook is in his room and he can’t make his legs move that far. Instead, he blinks and focuses on committing the sight of him to memory.

He can read Robbe like an open book by now; the melancholy pinch of his eyebrows and the slightly downturned corners of his lips tell the story of a boy wondering what it is like to have siblings, to be part of a nuclear family who eats dinner together every night, who plays in the snow, who has traditions.

Softly, he nudges Robbe’s foot, silently reminding him that he is here, that he has him, _always_ , and musters a tiny, reassuring smile when Robbe looks at him. He knows it’s a small consolation, and Robbe deserves so much more than what he can give him right now, but Robbe smiles back, warm and heartbreakingly gorgeous as always, and as if he has read Sander’s mind, he murmurs a gentle, “I know.”

They keep gazing at each other, brown holding dashes of sunlight and pale, heavy-lidded green lingering on cheekbones, dark eyebrows, tips of noses, and, for a fleeting second, light pink lips. Sander thinks that if this had been anybody else looking at him so intently, it would have made him want to slip out of his bones, jaw tensed and fists clenched, knuckles icy white with shame.

But not now, though. Not when it’s honey sweet and unassuming Robbe who doesn’t take up much space in the world but has taken up the entirety of Sander’s heart so fiercely and completely unbeknownst to him. He’s a treasure, really, and Sander can’t fathom how unbelievably oblivious he has been to his feelings for him, when all he can think about now is how much he loves him.

When Robbe lifts the blanket and gently tugs on the leg of Sander’s sweatpants, silently inviting him in, Sander doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t hesitate, he just drowsily slips into Robbe’s embrace.

There is a faint, faint little tingle somewhere deep inside of him when he notices the paint smears on the front of Robbe’s hoodie, well, _Sander’s_ hoodie.

“You’re wearing my hoodie,” he observes, more to himself than anyone else, curling his fingers in it as Robbe drapes the blanket over his shoulders.

“Yeah, I–” There is a slight fluster to Robbe’s voice. “I missed you, so…”

When Robbe’s scent – vanilla and light tangerine– wafts over Sander, something aches in his chest, and he’s scared to stain Robbe with his sadness and the war in his head. But Robbe isn’t afraid of getting his hands dirty; he holds him to his chest, so tight, fingertips of gold stroking his jaw, his neck, his hair, heart beating steadily right beneath Sander’s.

“I’ve missed you too,” he whispers, shaky and sad. “How have you been sleeping?"

“Oh, you know, I’ve gotten a few hours every night,” Robbe says. “I always sleep better with you, though.”

Sander presses his cheek into Robbe’s chest. “Me too.”

There is so much he wants to say, so much he wants to tell him, but he can’t seem to form his words into any coherent sentences. “Sorry,” he mumbles instead. “For all this. I feel that all I do is worry people and make them sad.” He swallows. “That I make you sad.”

In that moment, Robbe holds him just a tiny fraction tighter, breathing out a soft, “Silly. You don’t make anybody sad. You don’t make me sad.”

Sander whispers, teary-eyed. “I don’t want to make you sad.”

“And you don’t,” Robbe insists, tilting Sander’s chin to meet his eyes, brushing his slightly trembling lower lip, feather light.

Robbe wears his heart on the pads of his fingers, and Sander feels tiny little pieces of it being left wherever he touches, feels them inside too, where they are gently tearing down his armour. And he is trying, trying so hard to show himself to Robbe in his barest, most vulnerable state, not because he owes it to him, he knows he doesn’t, but because Robbe has never looked at him like he is some frail, abnormal being; he looks at him as he always has, with his kind, reassuring, and patient eyes, unknowingly acting like an anchor for Sander to hold on to.

“We’ll just sit right here now and take it minute by minute,” Robbe says, tracing the scar by Sander’s eye. “The only thing we’re gonna think about is what we want do in the next minute.”

Sander just looks at him in wonder. “What do you wanna do in this minute then?”

“In this minute… I really want to kiss you,” Robbe admits, and the softness in his voice makes the corners of Sander’s mouth lift.

Instinctively, he cups Robbe’s cheek, and it suddenly feels like his ability to speak vanishes, because Robbe is so, so beautiful and Sander is so, so in love with him.

When he musters a nod and a quiet, “Okay,” Robbe leans in, rests their noses together, and Sander realises then that he is waiting for him to meet him halfway. Because Robbe doesn’t take, he gives. He gives Sander options, gives him time. Robbe doesn’t mind his greasy hair, doesn’t mind that he has worn the same hoodie and sweatpants for days.

Just before their lips meet, Robbe whispers, “You’re not alone in all this,” and Sander stretches his neck the final bit, his heart scrambling into his throat.

It’s gentle, devastatingly gentle, destroying him and building him up anew in a nanosecond. He doesn’t last a minute, he barely lasts ten seconds even, because his world has finally begun again. And then there are droplets of saltwater flowing into soft, worn cotton and loving hands wiping them from his cheeks.

Life and grand declarations aren’t reserved for sunset-filled nights or red roses and candlelit dinners. Sometimes they happen on a cloudy Wednesday afternoon in the last week of January. Smoothing Sander’s messy fringe out of his eyes, Robbe says it, calm and sincere, “I love you, Sander.”

Involuntarily, Sander takes in a sharp breath of air, of Robbe’s scent, and his fingers tighten their grip on Robbe’s shirt. Because he struggles to understand. He struggles to understand how anyone as good as Robbe can love him back. He lets his teary eyes roam Robbe’s face for a moment, taking him in, his glowy cheeks, the few, tiny freckles scattered over the bridge of his nose.

“I love you too,” he says then, choked up and barely audible.

Slowly, he allows Robbe through the first door of many to the part of him that he has kept securely under lock and key for so long. Because he knows his mama is right; Robbe won’t leave; he will stay, and he will listen. Sander isn’t naïve about the long way still ahead of them, but this little step feels like the most liberating leap he has ever taken.

He holds the angel-pendant between his fingers, and for a long time he just watches it reflect the bright winter light, while Robbe rests his chin on top of his head. He then curls his hand around it, feels it in his palm, soothing and real, just like the boy around whose neck it hangs.

A snowflake gently lands on the windowpane, catching Sander’s attention, a perfect little creation in a world of disarray. He watches it leave a trail of water behind as it slides down the glass and out of sight.

“I like the light that snow gives. There’s a peacefulness to it,” he absentmindedly remarks. “I miss sunlight, though.”

When a quietness follows, Sander doesn’t think Robbe is going to respond, but then he runs a gentle fingertip down his jaw and tilts his chin, mumbling, “As long as you’re walking the earth, there will always be sunlight.”

All words momentarily vanish from Sander’s vocabulary anew, and a soft little astounded laugh emits from his throat, surprising even himself a little, a warmth blooming in his chest. “Wow, hello, little Shakespeare.”

“What?” Robbe huffs, light-hearted. “I can be poetic, you know.”

“Sure, you can,” Sander smiles, his body warm, and presses a chaste kiss to Robbe’s chest. “I seem to recall another one of your poetic gems. What was it again? Oh yeah, that’s right, “ _Fuck the exams, I’d rather chill with a lady_.””

Although Sander has tucked his head back under Robbe’s chin, he can still hear the slightly annoyed eyeroll in his voice. “Jens wrote that. But I’m glad you still find so much joy in making fun of me.” His lips are in Sander’s hair when he murmurs, “And that line didn’t particularly resonate with me. But you know that.”

Sander’s hand crawls under Robbe’s hoodie and gently caresses his waist “Yeah, I know. That was really sweet, though. What you said before. You’re so sweet.”

He keeps holding onto Robbe as they gradually slip into a peaceful silence, and he feels exhausted, can barely keep his eyes open any longer.

“I’m falling asleep,” he mumbles, nestled up against his lovely boy like a trusting kitten, a pair of soft lips pressing against his forehead, making his heart swell.

“That’s okay,” Robbe whispers. “You can sleep.”

On the other side of the window, the snowfall has eased off and only a few scattered snowflakes float from the winter-grey sky.

Sander looks up at him a final time, eyes half shut. “Thank you. For everything you’ve done.” And he really, really means it, with every inch of his being.

Robbe squeezes his shoulders. “Anytime.”

He thinks that he must feel heavy lying like this, most of his weight on Robbe’s chest and stomach, but Robbe isn’t bothered; he just gently rests his book against Sander’s shoulder, keeping him in his embrace with no intention of letting go, and goes back to studying as if this is the most natural, normal thing in the world, holding him when he can do nothing more than _exist_ , when all his heart can do is pump blood through his body. When blunt nails gently scrape his scalp, a tiny, hopeful voice tells Sander that maybe it is.

*****

He spends most of his days and all of his night in Robbe’s bed, sleeping a lot and kissing Robbe a lot. During the day, Robbe attends his classes, does his assignments, practises the piano, cleans, hangs out with friends; he does everything he normally would, giving Sander his space when he needs it, before gathering him in his arms at night. And Sander is grateful beyond words.

Then one early weekend morning when he rolls over in bed, there is a new airiness in his body and clarity in his mind, and he feels more like himself than he has in weeks, as if all of his wires and settings have been reconfigured.

He looks at Robbe for a bit, at his hands that are curled like paws under his chin, his parted lips, slightly chapped from the cold, and with a fingertip, Sander lightly traces a little heart on Robbe’s bicep, presses his lips against his shoulder, and gets out of bed.

As much as he revels in the scent of Robbe’s sleep-soft body and the feeling of his rumpled bedsheets, he longs for fresh air in his lungs and cold, flushed cheeks.

He dresses as quietly as he can and places a note on his pillow, his handwriting fast paced and slightly messy, letting Robbe know where he is.

_I’ve gone for a walk. I think I’ll go and see my parents after. Back in a few hours._

_Thank you for being so good to me._

_You’re wonderful x_

About ten minutes into his walk, Robbe texts him a single red heart, and Sander makes a mental note to buy coffee and croissants on the way home and to smooch him into the mattress and the couch and every wall in the apartment and wherever else he can get away with it. He responds with a string of emojis, the most random he can find, payback for all of Robbe’s eternal complaints about his lack of use of them. So, Robbe gets an octopus, a bouquet of flowers, a can of tomatoes, a fencer, an island with a single palm tree, and a flurry of hearts pierced by Cupid’s arrow.

Not even thirty seconds later, his phone goes off again.

09.54

Robbe:❤️

Sander: 🐙💐🥫🤺🏝💘💘💘💘💘💘💘💘💘

Robbe: 🙄

Robbe: 💘💗💓💞💖💕

And Sander thinks that’s a pretty accurate representation of how he feels right now.

-

That night, Sander leans back against the bathroom wall and quietly regards the boy perched on the counter opposite brushing his teeth. He had gotten ready for bed before Robbe who still had a few pages left to read for class. So, he waits while Robbe finishes up, his eyes wandering up to his hair – long and tousled and swept back by him absentmindedly running his hand through it – to the angel resting against his shirt, and down to his bare legs dangling off the counter, his foot swinging back and forth, gently hitting the cabinet beneath in a steady rhythm.

Robbe then gives him a slow, lazy one over, subtlety not part of his DNA, and Sander’s heart flutters at the unmasked appreciation.

When the younger boy has rinsed his mouth and put the toothbrush back in place, he wedges his hands between his thighs, making himself look so soft, his big t-shirt on its way down his shoulder.

They stay like this for a moment, regarding each other, sharing the quiet comfort of the small bathroom, Robbe’s voice seamlessly mingling with it a moment later, the tiniest hint of teasing in his tone. “You’re staring. Enjoying the view?”

And finally, Sander takes the few steps separating them. “Very much so,” he smiles and squeezes Robbe’s knees while Robbe’s fingers trail up and down the red _Thrasher_ logo on his chest. It’s a bit of a tight fit around his shoulders, but the way Robbe had kissed him when he saw him wearing his shirt made it all worth it. “If I’m staring, then what are you doing?”

A small smirk creeps onto Robbe’s face. “I’m looking respectfully.” Silently, instinctively, he opens his legs for Sander to step in between, curling a few of his fingers in the worn cotton. “Did you, uhm… Did you tell your parents? About us?” he asks.

Sander smirks. “Yes, I did.”

“Aaand what did they say?”

“Well, my dad was like,” Sander says, squeezing Robbe’s shoulder how his dad had done to him, making his voice bass deep and formal, “ _I’m happy for you, son_. _You’re very good for each other,”_ which makes Robbe blush. “And my mama went like this,” he grins, raising his hands to his cheeks and imitating his mother’s joyful shriek. “”Oh my god _, my honeys!_ ””

Robbe tosses his head back in unfettered laughter, exposing that gorgeous neck of his, and Sander thinks that even the sun can’t outshine him. He sneaks in a few kisses before taking him in, into his chest and into his heart, twining his arms tightly around his waist. One of his hands goes under his shirt as Robbe loops his arms around his neck, pulling him so close, and they just melt against each other. Sat on the counter, Robbe is the perfect height for Sander to nuzzle into the crook of his neck, to let his scent fill up the air he breathes.

“I love your parents. They’re great,” Robbe says.

“I love you. You’re great,” Sander mumbles, feeling almost tipsy as he sways their upper bodies, making Robbe chuckle into his hair.

For a moment, all of their different kinds of hugs run through Sander’s mind, all the different kinds of comfort they share; there are the hasty, one-armed goodbye hugs in the mornings, and there are arms loosely wrapped around a neck from behind, a chin resting on top of a shoulder, nosily peering at what the other is sketching or cooking or typing on their laptop, earning them a swat to the forehead and a slightly annoyed scoff. Sometimes it is just gentle and comforting arms draped around sleepy bodies, seeking solace. And now there is this too: a full-bodied embrace, slow and luxurious, one that makes Sander warm to the bone.

Slowly, reluctantly, Robbe pulls back, his nose brushing Sander’s temple in the process. With slightly flushed cheeks, arms loosely wrapped around Robbe’s waist, Sander’s eyes travel to Robbe’s unruly locks again, a soft smile gracing his lips.

“Your hair is wild right now,” he observes. “It’s gotten so long.”

As if on instinct, Robbe combs a hand through the hair at the back of Sander’s head, letting it slide through his fingers. Reaching up to Robbe’s forehead, Sander takes a curl between his thumb and forefinger, gently stretching it until it reaches the tip of the younger boy’s nose.

“Do you think I should cut it?” Robbe smiles, crinkling his nose when the lock tickles him.

Shaking his head, Sander lets go of the strand and watches it lazily bounce back into whatever place it pleases. “No, I like it. A lot.”

His hands settle on Robbe’s bony hips, and his doe eyes is making his heart run wild. With a palm still flat against his chest, Sander knows Robbe feels it too, and his thoughts are confirmed when Robbe asks, a cute frown on his face, “Why is your heart beating so fast?” And Sander can’t believe how adorably oblivious he is to his effect on him.

He drops his gaze for a moment, breathing out a low chuckle, before reconnecting their eyes and closing a hand around Robbe’s. “Well, you’re looking at me, and my heart can’t really control itself when you do that.”

It’s cheesy and sickeningly sweet, and Sander absolutely lives for it.

“Really?” Robbe murmurs, heavy-lidded and lovely. “And when I… When I smile or laugh, what does your heart do then?”

“When you smile, it starts galloping.” Sander tucks a stray lock behind Robbe’s ear. “And when you laugh, it feels like it’s about to leap out of my chest.”

Then there’s a gentle fingertip on his eyebrow, tracing the shape. “And when I touch you?”

“When you touch me, it calms down,” Sander says to Robbe’s surprise. “And then other times it goes _phheeeewww_.” He mimics an explosion with his hands and grins when light pink blossoms in Robbe’s cheekbones anew. He grips his waist and pulls him closer, acutely aware that the only thing separating them is very, very thin layers of fabric. “What about you, huh? Does your heart also go _phheeewww_ when I touch you? Or other parts of your body, maybe?” he teases.

“Sander…” Robbe drops his forehead onto his shoulder, exhaling a muffled chuckle. When Sander noses into his silky, fragrant curls, Robbe nods in answer to his question. Tilting Robbe’s head back up, he kisses him, soothing and reassuring.

There’s a glint of something in Robbe’s eyes when he pulls back, something dark that Sander has only seen once, at the piano, in the split second before their lips connected for the first time, and maybe it’s reflected in his own gaze too, because Robbe whispers, hoarse, “What are you thinking about?”

“Only you, baby,” Sander smirks, because who else could it ever be. “In much less clothing. All over me. Or under me, maybe,” he adds, and watches the tip of Robbe’s tongue glide over his lower lip, his insides doing somersaults and pirouettes.

In a swift move, Sander’s mouth is on his jaw, kissing and nibbling, his legs nearly collapsing when Robbe’s voice, syrupy sweet, is in his ear. “I really want you, Sander.”

“Yeah?” he teases. “How?”

There is no bashfulness in Robbe’s voice, just pure want. “Inside me.”

And Sander shivers, shivers at the prospect of having Robbe spread out beneath him, all pretty and lovely and his, of feeling his heat engulf him. Robbe catches his lips in a way that temporarily blanks his mind, and all he can to is clutch at his small, small waist, bunching up the fabric of his oversized t-shirt in his fists.

They kiss, and they kiss, and they kiss, getting lost for a moment, until Robbe wraps his legs around him, and Sander carries him to his room, fingertips digging into the back of his thighs. Sprawled on his back in the striped bedding, hair fanning out like a halo across the pillow, Robbe is breath-taking, and for the hundredths, thousandths time that day, Sander falls in love with him all over again.

It’s unhurried, lush, and Sander takes his time with him, glides his hands up his abs when he removes his t-shirt and down his thighs when his underwear comes off. Not a rib or scar or goosebump goes unexplored; he memorizes the curve of Robbe’s spine, the shape of his thighs, the velvety soft feeling when his fingers travel between them; he licks into the hollows of his collarbones and over the scattered freckles on his chest, little dots of chocolate for him to lap up. The delicate whimpers and sighs and moans that his touch produces are to die for, and Sander swears that he almost does when Robbe drags his hips against his own, tight and slick.

And then Robbe rolls them over, lips kissing poems into the junction between his neck and shoulder, fingertips writing sonnets into his hipbones, and Sander’s breath hitches when Robbe puts his warm, wet mouth on him. He buries his hand in his hair, lets his eyes flutter shut, and revels in the swirls of Robbe’s tongue.

When Sander rocks them together, finally, nothing else exists. Only _Robbe_ and the salty sheen of sweat on his skin, his sharp nails carving into his back, leaving red lines down the length of his spine, and the fiery sensation where they are connected, the closest they can be, so close that flower petals could be pressed paper-thin between them. He whispers every imaginable form of praise in Robbe’s ear, unable to fathom that he gets to have this. He half expected that he would be able to drag this out, that it would still take some more effort than usual to reach that deep, deep pool of heat in the pit of his stomach, his mind and body a bit threadbare still, that he could keep it languid and luxurious and on the verge of forever, but when Robbe licks a blazing stripe up his throat, nips at his jaw, and curls his legs around him, locking him in, he barely lasts another minute.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, spent, but doesn’t feel even a pinch of embarrassment, not when Robbe is looking at him so fondly, kissing the corner of his mouth, his giggle like a wind-chime in the breeze. Sated and blissed out, he helps Robbe the last step of the way, licking into his mouth when he is at his peak, swallowing the vibrations of his own name.

Sander knows now that there will always be a place for him in the world, right here, in Robbe’s arms, where there is space for all his unfinished sentences, his loud laughter, his still weather, and his hurricanes. _He knows it, he knows it, he knows it_ , but it hits him like a ton of bricks right then, and he can do nothing more than bury his face into the comfort of Robbe’s neck and breathe in the sweet, heavy scent of him, of them, willing himself not to cry.

And he will do anything in his fucking might to make sure that Robbe feels just as safe and accepted with him, if not more.

*****

Weeks later, as Sander slings on his leather jacket in front of the hallway mirror and adjusts his hair under the hood of his dark grey hoodie, Robbe leans against the doorframe, arms folded across his chest, and smirks.

“Hey, I’m Sander, and I only ever wear my leather jacket, even when it’s February and below zero degrees outside, because that’s how edgy and reckless I am,” he teases.

Sander catches his eye in in the mirror and snorts, shaking his head while draping his green duffle bag over his shoulder.

“I’m so cool, because black and darkness is my aesthetic,” Robbe continues. “I can’t be caught, ‘cause my spray paint and I are always one step ahead of the law.” With a mirthful grin tugging on his lips, he starts throwing up a string of questionable looking hand signs in Sander’s face when he comes closer. Sander manages to catch his wrists and ends up half wrestling him back against the wall, because his boyfriend is so dumb and wonderful. His Docs add a centimetre or two to their already obvious height difference, and Sander is _living_ for the way Robbe gazes up at him through his dark lashes.

He tucks a silky soft lock of hair behind Robbe’s ear, stealing a quick kiss. “Do you think I’m in some kind of gang or something?”

Robbe lifts his hands in a shrug and twines them around Sander’s neck. “I wouldn’t at all be surprised if you were secretly part of some graffiti gang with all of your weird friends.”

“ _My friends_ are weird?” Sander widens his eyes at Robbe’s brazen comment. “I wouldn’t be so self-assured, Mr. My-Friends-And-I-Call-Ourselves-The- _Broerrrs_ -And-We-Film-Ourselves-Being-Dumbasses-For-Everyone-To-See.”

“Hey, I only edit the videos. I haven’t actually been in them for over two years, so you can shut up, thank you very much.” Robbe huffs.

“Still,” Sander persists, hands going around the small of Robbe’s back, grabbing handfuls of his caramel hoodie. “The videos would have so many more viewers if you were still in them, you know. Haven’t you read all those comments begging for you to come back? People want those Bambi eyes in their lives, man.”

At that, Robbe tilts his head back against the wall and breathes out a little laugh, and when the hoop in his ear catches Sander’s eye, glinting so deliciously, Sander dips in, bites down on his earlobe and tugs gently. The most delicate little sound tumbles from Robbe’s parted lips, and Sander’s knees nearly give out.

“This is the best thing you’ve ever done,” he says, voice low and raspy, the silver cold on his tongue.

There is an audible hitch in Robbe’s voice. “What?”

“Your earring. You’re so hot with it,” Sander says, mouth dragging down Robbe’s jaw. “Maybe I should get a little piercing myself, you know, to get on your level.”

Robbe smirks, preening. “Oh yeah? What kind?”

“A nipple piercing,” Sander deadpans and laps up the sound of Robbe’s merry laughter, the kiss more teeth than anything else.

“Please don’t,” Robbe murmurs, quiet and a little shy then, sneaking in a string of quick kisses. “You’re really hot just as you are.”

Sander pulls away with a lopsided grin, smug. “Aw, you think I’m hot, baby?”

Robbe rolls his eyes, but it doesn’t make up for how fast a red shade flourishes in his cheeks. “I’m not saying it again, though. Don’t wanna feed your ego too much.”

Combing a hand through Robbe’s tousled curls, Sander whispers, “You’re so sweet. So, so sweet,” and presses his lips against the corner of his mouth, his touch turning Robbe into butter.

“Yeah, you’ve told me before,” Robbe teasingly smiles, and Sander leans in, catching it in a long and thorough kiss, mumbling a, “’s because I really mean it,” into it.

Robbe looks dazed and dishevelled when he pulls away. “Am I really just supposed to do all the chores like a housekeeper while you’re out having fun vandalizing the city?” he says, his lower lip jutting out in a slight pout as he toys with the strings of Sander’s hoodie.

A racy image of Robbe fluttering about in a little white frilly apron, feather duster in hand, enters Sander’s mind, and he only just manages to contain himself from ditching his friends and undressing Robbe right there and then.

“A very, very pretty housekeeper,” he points out, voice low and silky smooth as he sneakily slips his hands inside the back pockets of Robbe’s jeans and pulls him as close as he can possibly get.

“Shut up,” Robbe scoffs half-heartedly, leaning in again, and Sander fights the urge to roll his hips, to feel his effect on him, knowing that he will never get out the door if he does.

“Don’t you think you should wear your winter jacket?” Robbe says against him then.

Drawing back, fixing him with a mock offended stare, Sander says, aghast, “And ruin my _edginess_ by looking like a marshmallow? I fucking don’t think so.” The corners of his mouth lift when he catches Robbe’s again, his face softening. “You’re sounding like my mum. Please, _please_ , don’t sound like my mum when we’re kissing.”

“Sorry,” Robbe mumbles, nipping at Sander’s lower lip, and swallows the low moan that he lurs out of him. “You should put on some gloves and a beanie, though.” He regards him for a moment. “And a scarf.”

Sighing, Sander pats his bag. “I’ve got it all in here, baby, and I’m wearing my turtleneck,” he smirks with a cocked eyebrow and tugs on the neck of his shirt for Robbe to see. “The one that you like.”

But Robbe is persistent, can be equally as stubborn as Sander in his own cute way. “Can you at least put on the rest for me, baby? Pretty please?” he says in his most honey-dripping voice, coaxing, and Sander’s obstinate resolve doesn’t stand a chance. “I know you’re just gonna forget everything around you once you’ve entered your zone.”

“ _Once I’ve entered my zone_ ,” Sander repeats, fondly mocking, but rummages through his bag anyway, and makes a show of putting on his beanie and gloves.

“Thank you,” Robbe smiles, pleased, doe eyes glinting and glimmering in the hallway light, crescent smile lines embedded in his cheeks, and Sander is weak, weak, weak.

“I would paint a mural of you,” he muses aloud, gloved hand cupping his cheek.

Robbe gently scoffs. “Yeah, right.”

“ _I would_ ,” Sander insists. “Maybe in another universe I already have. One of those that takes up an entire wall for the whole city to admire, and they’re probably gonna be like: “Wow, I wish someone loved me that much to do something like that.””

“Or,” Robbe boyishly pulls down the hem of Sander’s beanie, covering his eyes, “they’re gonna think: “Wow, the artist who did that must be so fucking whipped.””

Sander knows that Robbe’s reaction is him trying to disguise his feelings of unworthiness of grandiose gestures, and Sander is determined to make him realise how fucking _unbelievably_ worthy of everything good he is. Shrugging as if Robbe’s comment is old news, he presses their foreheads together, the tips of their noses brushing. “Well, they’d be right, wouldn’t they? You know I’d do anything for you.”

The playfulness in Robbe’s eyes gives way for something else entirely then, something akin to bashfulness and utter adoration, his whole demeanour softening, and Sander wonders if Robbe knows that he would die for him.

But he doesn’t want to think about that, doesn’t want thoughts of death in his mind; he wants thoughts of _life_ , with Robbe.

“I love you,” Robbe mumbles, quiet, honest and sincere.

Wrapping his arms back around him, Sander noses into the warm crook of Robbe’s neck and hugs him tight. “I love you too,” he says and is rewarded with Robbe’s giggle when his leather jacket creaks and squeaks as he sways them back and forth.

He wants to stay like this always, pressed against Robbe’s body, but Robbe gives him a final kiss on the cheek, spins him around and steers him towards the door. “Now let me go do the dishes and sulk in peace while you’re out having fun with your _gang_ friends.” When Sander turns, he adds, voice laced in affection, “You beautiful, talented boy.”

“I’m an instant star,“ Sander chirps. “Just add water and stir,” to which Robbe rolls his eyes and sends him out the door with a kiss that has Sander’s mind forgetting time and place and his legs wobbling down the stairs.

He skips the last step and jumps down on the landing, boylike, and screeches to a halt when he hears Robbe softly call his name. “Make it up to me when you get home?”

It’s said as a question but there’s a tinge of expectancy on Robbe’s face, and he looks _divine_ standing there in the doorway of their shared apartment, gazing down at him, angel necklace resting over his hoodie, sweater paws and everything, autumn epitomized.

Like a loyal soldier in formation, Sander straightens his back, salutes him, shoots him a very poorly executed wink, and is on his way. And then, because he is a roguish brat feeling so fucking giddy and Robbe is an absolute angel, he shouts back, voice echoing up the staircase, “It’s gonna be the best dick you’ve ever had, my lovely Robin.”

He lingers long enough to hear a scandalised “ _Sander Driesen_ ,” and though Sander can’t see him, he can tell by his high-pitched voice that Robbe is sporting a lovely red flush. Grinning triumphantly, Sander calls out one last, “Love you!”, steps out of the main entrance of the apartment building, and is off into the cold winter night.

*****

In the early hours of the morning, they drift in and out of sleep.

When Robbe opens his eyes, his sight is blessed with a broad, forever sun-kissed back drinking up the streaks of snow light that pours in through the windowpane. It’s scorching against his chest when he presses against him, mouth resting on the bone at the top of his long spine, arm circling his middle.

When Sander wakes, he is met with a mop of sleep-tousled hair and a bridge of a freckled nose, body wrapped like a cocoon in the duvet, always within arm’s reach, and though Sander is half asleep, his mind is already sketching the way his lashes fan over his cheeks. He inches closer and very gently eases the covers out of Robbe’s grip, slipping beneath them to warm his cold boy. A contented sigh escapes his lips when Robbe unconsciously burrows into his chest, goosebump-filled skin seeking heat.

The next time they surface, they have moved again: their foreheads are pressed together, and Robbe’s legs are wedged between Sander’s. Sander doesn’t know what time it is, could be morning or afternoon, he doesn’t care to know. When Robbe’s eyelids flutter open, gentle ocean eyes are on him, and they barely need to move to kiss each other good morning, their noses already brushing. But in Robbe’s opinion they are not close enough, so he flings his arms around Sander’s waist and rolls onto his back, dragging Sander on top.

“Oh, how lovely,” Sander murmurs in a voice that is rough with sleep, and hooks a leg over Robbe’s, placing a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss on the base of his throat, his pulse beating leisurely against his lower lip. He trails a fingertip down Robbe’s sternum, around to his ribs, and traces the smudges of charcoal that his fingers have left there, reliving the memories from the night before.

As he had toed off his boots in the hallway, a faint sound of water hitting tiles came from the bathroom. Figuring that he had some time before Robbe would be out of the shower, he settled at their kitchen table, beginning the first few rough sketches of the mural he would make for him. Because he wasn’t kidding when he said that he would paint Robbe on a wall for the whole of Antwerp to see, no, he was dead serious.

Engrossed in his work, he didn’t hear when Robbe padded to him, long legs barely dry from the shower, hair ridiculously rumpled, smelling so sweet of tangerines. Then his voice, soft as velvet, was in his ear, “Touch me, please,” his hand already pushing Sander’s sketchbook aside. When he straddled his lap so easily, as though he had done it a million times before, Sander was momentarily floored. Digging his fingers into Robbe’s hips, Sander mirrored his tone, teasingly mumbling, “You want my charcoal-stained hands all over you now, hm?” With remembrance glimmering in his warm, brown eyes and a small smile gracing his roseate lips, Robbe nodded, exhaling an almost inaudible, “Yes,” and Sander was done for. “Didn’t you promise me something?” Robbe added, smug.

Oh yes, Sander had indeed promised him something.

With a light roll of his hips, Sander had tested Robbe’s yearning, and the grey cotton of Robbe’s underwear had hidden nothing.

And luckily for Robbe, Sander is a man of his words. Judging from the claw marks along his own spine and Robbe’s blissed out aura, he is quite positive that he fulfilled his promise with top marks.

Sander thinks Robbe should stay like this for always: body spent and pliant and embellished with charcoal fingerprints and crimson smudges from where he has made a feast of his neck and collarbones. His chest wells with pride and desire and _love_ , and when Robbe whispers that he can still _feel_ him, he wants to take him all over again, in every way possible, can’t get enough; he craves to feel his necklace pour over his chest like molten gold, and sigh honey-sweet things into the wetness of his mouth, and make his delicate thighs tremble. But they have all the time in the world. He knows that. So he takes a deep inhale of Robbe and tries to calm his fumbling heart. Splaying out his fingers as wide as he can, he watches how his hand covers most of Robbe’s bare stomach.

“You’re so tiny,” he blurts out, still so mesmerised every time he touches him, butterflies fluttering wildly at the fact that this wonderful boy is his. “I’m actually obsessed.”

He is distracted by the way Robbe’s lean muscles tighten deliciously when he giggles, and he leans down, _has_ to kiss every rib of his, his bellybutton, his hipbones. He even kisses the little golden cherub in a silent apology for all the things it has seen and feels himself completely melt when Robbe combs through his hair. When Robbe draws him close, gathers him in his arms, an ‘I love you’ rolls off Sander’s tongue, and Robbe looks drunk, his doe-eyes heavy-lidded, cheeks painted in a pretty pink.

Outside, the heavy, snow-filled February clouds are slowly dispersing, a pale winter sky making itself known.

“That cloud looks like a monkey smoking a cigar,” Robbe states, absentmindedly smoothing a hand up and down Sander’s back.

Sander snorts, eyes searching for the peculiar image in the sky. “I think _you’ve_ been smoking, baby.”

“No, _look_ ,” Robbe insists, pointing out the window for Sander’s gaze to follow. “That big blob of cloud right there, that’s its head, and that longer and fluffier part is its arm holding the cigar to its mouth.”

Sander squints, not finding anything that even remotely resembles what Robbe is describing, but he hums anyway, pretending that realisation dawns on him then, indulging Robbe with an easy smile on his lips.

“ _Tsk_ , can’t even see art that’s right in front of him.” Robbe shakes his head, mock offended by Sander’s ignorance of cloud gazing. “And you call yourself an artist.”

Looking up and nipping at Robbe’s chin, Sander assures him that he has no problem identifying the piano-playing, fire-breathing, angelic-looking work of art under him.

“I could admire you forever,” he says, and he means it, would be totally and utterly content with spending the rest of his days tracing the star freckles on Robbe’s shoulders and kissing the tendons down the line of his beautiful neck to the razor-sharp edges of his collarbones. “But I’m very glad you’re here to help me out when I need it,” he adds, sincerely.

Robbe strokes his cheekbone and mumbles a soft, “Always.”

And Sander knows that he knows, that they understand each other.

“ _Mijn lief_ ,” he mumbles against Robbe’s jawline, and Robbe kisses him deeply, lazily, turning Sander into a pile of mush.

They stay like that, Sander on top of Robbe, completely boneless, Robbe caressing his back and playing with the slightly greasy locks of his hair, sleepily studying and discussing the ever-changing shapes of the clouds: there are boats sailing through sky blue water, a squirrel floating on its back, and a hand flipping somebody, somewhere off – _it’s not flipping somebody off, Sander, it’s pointing at something_. _No, it’s definitely flipping somebody off_ , _Robbe. It’s probably flipping_ you _off for believing that it_ isn’t _flipping somebody off._ When Robbe flips _him_ off, all huffy and unamused, Sander latches onto his lips and kisses him hard, because how dare he look this fucking cute.

Reaching for Robbe’s hand, he intertwines their fingers, and gradually lets his words dwindle until all he can hear is Robbe’s occasional comment and the steady heartbeat deep in his chest. Pressing a few light pecks against Robbe’s sternum, he thinks that right here, no stresses or sorrows can ever reach him, can ever reach them; not when Robbe is so unreservedly giving him his softest self; Robbe, who sneakily seduces him into a healthy sleeping schedule with his creamy brown eyes and oversized sleepshirts and his quiet _you know I can’t sleep without you, baby_. He makes him feel so _safe_ , and Sander hopes with his whole entire being that he does the same for Robbe.

Robbe strokes his cheek, and Sander is about to fall asleep when he looks out the window again. “That one looks a bit like a dick,” he deadpans, unlinking their fingers to point, which earns him an eyeroll and an amused little huff of a chuckle from Robbe, who nonetheless presses his lips to his forehead, and it makes Sander feel so devastatingly precious. After that, he spends more time watching Robbe than anything else, simply can’t help it.

“Can we just stay in here and make out all day?” Sander pouts up at him.

He feels Robbe’s cold toes drag up and down his calf. “I was thinking we could have some sex as well.”

“Yeah?” Sander lazily kisses up the line of his neck and nibbles at the hinge of his jaw, very much a supporter of that suggestion. “That’s a deal.”

“We have the whole day, Sander.” Robbe squirms, giggly. “But I’m glad to know you can be this enthusiastic in the morning, ‘s a nice change from how grumpy you usually are.”

Sander pulls away then, Robbe’s smug comment reminding him of something he had meant to show him yesterday, but then Robbe had just been so distracting, lying on the couch, scrolling through his phone, one of his lean legs draped over the backrest, that Sander completely forgot. But who could really blame him?

He reaches for his phone on the nightstand. “You have to see this video my mama sent me yesterday.”

On the screen, a little four-year-old Sander has obviously just been woken up, his little body clad in dinosaur pyjamas, his legs hanging over the bed, hands rubbing his puffy, sleepy eyes, his brown hair flat against his head on one side and all over the place on the other. When his mother says, “Good morning, honey,” he just glares at her, then right at the camera, eyebrows knitted together in a way that is much cuter way than what he intends it to be, before shuffling to the bathroom without a single word. Just as he’s about to close the door, a sullen expression on his face, mama Driesen utters a fond, “I love you,” and Sander's whole attitude visibly changes, his mouth lifting in a soft little smile. Very slowly, he closes the door, mischievously biting his lip and peeking out at the camera through the little sliver. And it’s so _Sander_ that Robbe can’t help throwing his head back in laughter.

“So you’ve really always been grumpy in the morning, And then the good old ‘I love you’ softens you right up.” Robbe tightens his arms around his shoulders, cooing, “I just want to _squeeze_ little baby boy Sander.”

“I think you’re making up for that right now by squeezing twenty-year-old Sander half to death,” Sander gets out, voice strained from how his lungs are very nearly being crushed by Robbe’s strong grip.

With a quiet giggle, Robbe loosens his arms and snatches Sander’s still unlocked phone from where it’s been abandoned in the duvet.

“What are you doing?” Sander says, trying to grab it out of Robbe’s hand, but he just stretches his arm up above him, too high for Sander to reach, and before he is aware of what is happening, Robbe has pressed play on the playlist that Sander has spent hours perfecting, every song carefully chosen, the opening notes of “Space Oddity” softly lacing with the calm atmosphere of the room.

 _Oh god, he’s perfect_ , is the only thought running through Sander’s mind.

Robbe, who has heard Sander play the song at full volume enough times to know the lyrics by now, quietly hums along in his god-awful singing voice that Sander has teased him for relentlessly, _because how can one be so good at playing the piano but so bad at singing?_ But right now, he couldn’t care less. Because it’s _Robbe_ , and he’s making him fucking swoon.

“ _Planet earth is blue_ ,” Robbe croons down at him, achingly bright-eyed, before softly murmuring, “and I love you.”

And Sander adores him so frantically that he can barely breathe, his mere existence filling his veins with starlight and liquid gold.

He vows to himself that one day, he will get them a spacious apartment with a royalty-worthy bed covered in warm, luxurious sheets in which Robbe can sprawl on weekend mornings or model for Sander on late afternoons, bathed in golden hour light, and a grand claw-footed tub for Robbe to sink into, mother of pearl foam shrouding his agile body, creamy skin slick and glorious. He knows that Robbe is perfectly happy staying like this, in their little bubble, for a long, long time, but Sander wants to spoil him absolutely rotten. For now, though, he is content with sharing their small shower, sneakily looping an arm around Robbe’s waist while manoeuvring around each other, and sleeping in Robbe’s old bed, both of them unclothed beneath old, faded bedsheets.

There are butterfly fingers over his arm then and a soft voice near his ear, pulling him out of his thoughts. “Can we go on a date tonight?”

“Mhmm, sure,” Sander hums. “Where do you wanna go?”

“To the couch in the living room.”

A hearty laugh wells in Sander’s chest, the corners of his eyes crinkling up, because oh, how he loves him. “A couch date?”

“A couch date,” Robbe confirms. “Maybe I’ll even play some piano for you, if you’re lucky.”

“Sounds nice. Piano and chill,” Sander mumbles, appreciative and sleepy and happy, earning a snort from Robbe. Rolling them over, Sander tucks Robbe under his chin and pulls the duvet up around their waists. “Can we go on a napping date right now?”

“Absolutely,” Robbe whispers, tender lips against his collarbone. “You’re reading my mind.”

Although they are not alone in the world, at this moment it is as if no one else exists but them, safe and sound in Robbe’s bed, in _their_ bed, the tinny sound of David Bowie’s voice flowing from the phone speakers somewhere in the sheets.

Sander knows that they are going to make it.

And they will be absolutely exceptional.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!  
> Comments are everything 🐙💐🥫🤺🏝💘💘💘💘💘💘💘💘💘


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